


season blowing like seraph's kiss

by crystallizedcherry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse AU, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Jack - Freeform, Jokers, Kings & Queens, season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallizedcherry/pseuds/crystallizedcherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are the guardians of seasons. Heart of Spring, Clubs of Summer, Spades of Winter, Diamonds of Autumn. Also don't forget the two sides of world: The Dark and The Bright. Here, they blow whispers of harmony throughout the world, keep everything in  place. Fantasy combined with Cardverse AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	season blowing like seraph's kiss

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: i have my personal pattern of Cardverse AU, sorry if it doesn't fit your taste. Thank you for whoever created this kind of AU -- and, yeah, Hetalia (c) Hidekazu Himaruya.

heart – spring

.

Some dreams were made to be whispered by spring’s wind. Some which had been a reality already were kissed by spring’s touch to the cheeks of yearnful lasses or ladies whose days were fulfilled by desire.

Camille the Heart—every adorer all around the kingdom always rolled the name with smile, wanted or not, for the end of the name always drew lips into curve based on their distinctive dialect—was a woman who people said that her heart was older than her looks, but everything in her, in or even out, would not recognize what _old_ was when she went to a dance.

Always she loved ballroom dance. Slow pace, eternal touch, eye-on-eye, knees brushed in rhythm, ended with gala of burgundy beverages—her love for every element remained even until the Earth died of aging.

Queen of Hearts—braid on one side of head, glamorously distanced herself from the typical way of being elegant as the wife of throned man _—_ brought her crowned man into a room with Gaskell as the main event, _My Dear, shall we dance?_

But Fiorenzo, being a unusual husband she had been holding in heart, shook his head, she squinted, he still did say no. _You broke my dream?_ she propounded question to the King of Hearts. Had the war with The Troops of Hell’s Hex wearied them, and had the winning made her plan a ball for everyone to wash away all the mourning and the tears, nevertheless now he said no for her need.

“Spring’s beginning is not time to dance,” he said, gripping her fingers firm and eventually planted kisses on six random knuckles—it put some pique off her heart.

 _So,_ she continued _,_ and he cut off, _we have something to do, let our Jack, Louis lead the ball._

Camille closed her eyes.

“Blooming could be postponed,” but all she gained from him was still a _no_.

 _Nothing prettier than spring’s blooms_ , and she sighed. From all the priority he put on the utmost top on his daily journal, _time_ was the ultimate deadliest law he grasped. And he didn’t think that seeing his people got frozen longer for the spring’s late coming would make him happy.

 _Okay,_ she agreed. Nodding once only but holding her hand out for him to take her to the distant balcony in the castle. Strides with him had never felt too long for her, for the time deviated itself whenever she was with him; _time hates me,_ she would desperately muttered, often, because the short period felt made her want more.

And they painted spring to the kingdom. He with his piano and she with her thirty four strings of harp. Edelweiss woke up on the hill, tulips smiled in the park. Heart symbol on the wrist of Camille shone, soon; the brighter it was, more shimmering Fiorenzo’s was, on his nape.

.

* * *

 

clubs - summer

.

Vlad the Jack of Clubs brought back the empty plate, and Erzsébet nodded, _yes, yes, yes_ , _hopefully you will wipe your lips cleaner next time_. She turned to the King, _maybe we should make a certain law for Jack with the list of condemnation we would apply if he didn’t feed the Winter properly_.

“I myself will give the meal,” Gilbert stood up, fingers stroking golden attire. “Permission for our Jack to walk into Winter’s crib will be stricter, the law might soon be written on my behalf.”

Frown upon Vlad’s visage— _foods of this kingdom are always satisfying, I can’t help myself!_ but his father shook his head.

Erzsébet raised from the throne blessed with summer’s golden touch of shimmering shine, putting back onto the armrest rusty harmonica she had just indulged herself into (found under a table full of spiderweb, honestly), reaching shoulder of her husband. “I want to see the Winter too,” and yes, she didn’t find any disagreement.

In a heavy-locked room they let the Winter live in, for seven men they tasked the guidance in case the Winter was too bored to spend his entire imprisonment with echoing melody with his flute only.

Erzsébet would be a powerful machine of mass-production of worries if the Winter didn’t get the foods. _What if he enrages and breaks the wall and—_ then he soothed her, laughed over the process, practically the tears broke down in the corner of his eyes,

_Silly you, the Awesomest King will stop it, of course, and let the summer walk on the right path._

— _of course it is me._

Did the door open, frozen fireplace they faced first. The Winter crossed his legs before the icy (previously wooden, _thank you, o magic_ ) chair not too far from the object. He raised his eyebrows and later they were knitted, edge-to-edge of cyan hair almost touching each other, “Where’s my food?”

Erzsébet slipped her hair to the back of her ear, right before the flowers of summer he gifted her long ago, _your tiara needs friend, I think_ , and they were orange enough to reflect her identity ( _Lady of Sun-Bathed Land, of course_ ). Gilbert stepped in, shoes almost skidded on the icy surface. A set of lunch on hand, rarely Erzsébet found any king who served the prisoner directly.

“Sorry for the long wait,” he shrugged, left the tray on the place it should have been; right in the front of the hand of the hungry man needed to be caged for months ahead.

“Hn,” was the reply, and Gilbert found Erzsébet’s back back to his palm. Only the gesture which commanded her further off the man. Not to the main room, though, to the rooftop he brought.

Summer was still on the kingdom, she witnessed everything was still right as it should have to be. Sunflowers kissed the sunshine, sunshine glittered the meadow with windy kisses, kisses was planted by the King on his wife’s cherry lips, _darling, darling, nothing to worry, summer still lingers here like how I am in your arm._

His thumb where tattooed the Club symbol was there, connected to hers on her lower jaw, when his lips found hers in rhythmic dance of kisses.

 .

* * *

  
spades – winter

.

 _Papa, Papa, she almost fire my hair up, Papa, Papa!_ And Antonio only jawdropped whilst Emma buried her chuckle deep behind her knuckles. Sole curl on the head of Lovino still had flickering orange spots and he blew them still in _woaa, I hate fire, Papa!_ state.

Sometimes Emma was wondering what kind of Jack he was—but, _yes_ , the Kingdom of Spades of Winter was not exactly how it should be depicted in; judging who Antonio was and let’s don’t mind the successor.

Laughter, laughter, laughter. Not the elements winter kingdom should possess, nevertheless, sometimes Fate kissed each who accepted in the different place; so the result would be emanated in the different things. They all had been kissed on the lips; therefore the laughter was exist—not a same story if the Fate had left the lips cold like fragile wheat on the meadow of snowflakes. Or had the Fate had put Its lips on their eyes instead; maybe the sight of theirs would have been a reason why a man stood in frozen figure.

“I’m so sorry for the chaos but be sure,” the Summer’s heel stomped on the glacial carpet, the gown was lifted up to reveal half of her sun-kissed legs, “I meant no harm to him, my Spade King!”

Laughter, once more. Emma shook head, _would it be funnier if we were Diamonds?_ Then she quoted the old book from unnamed author on the bottom of most fragile cupboard in the library, _ever you compare your life to anyone’s fate, never you find any valuable treasure you actually possess,_ and she eventually just curved her lips upwards.

 _The Jack of Spades is not angry_ , Antonio worked with the distance between he and the Summer, “Like you don’t know him, hm?”

She took her hands off the gown, a sigh, “Okay,” and she only left heat in the place where it should not be.

The Jack ran to his mother, knelt, with sobbing he grieved, “Snowflakes, Mama? Because I can’t stand hot forever!”

Emma back on her feet. Before him, she bowed, put her palm over his head. The air seemed to be crinkled, and she fulfilled it back with white glitters along with fall of snowflakes no bigger than dust. No second she spent on the simplest ceremony of blessing without smile, awe bathed the husband. Her turqouise gown the edge reaching near her feet shone like moon, silky surface emanated breezing wind but Antonio knew, hugging her had— _and would—_ never felt that cold. Never, never. Only warm. And lovely. Cheesy it would be, but where and when the warm could do lies as what it had only touches and no lips to speak?

Lovino was back to the figure he usually was—blue cape covering white soft clothing—and at least no trace of fire all along his body.

Antonio reached for Emma’s shoulder, she spared a glance and he smiled.

“You are the Queen of Spades. Why do I find sunshine radiating from this body of beauty?”

Smile was the first offering—but Antonio would never be satisfied only by curve—then she tilted her head, wondering why Antonio didn’t have any knowledge of the answer. _Who my husband is, hm? A supposed-to-be-cold-king but always bring smile in every season_.

A chuckle, “Love possess the utmost ability to defy law of nature, it might be.”

.

* * *

diamonds – autumn

.

If red was love, then what was orange? Vaguing love might it be, yet nobody could guess that it was possibly just a vivid depiction of powerful yearn. But don't we exclude the probability of how it might be; an unrequited affection, unreplied opera song in which it held no amusement for the audience—but no, no, Arthur would shook head and voiced bold the words again, no, no.

Autumn was what he painted on the canvas, green he left and orange he put more. The Queen of Diamonds stood by his side,

 _Our Jack learnt something today_ , and of course Arthur would agreed only with gestures, up-and-downs of his head. Jett is our best Jack. Brush still on hand, twinkling dots on the canvas flying. Dancing in the air, kissed the Queen's cheek emanating cute laughter, and, yes, coming down to the garden to peck the summer's leaves: now your time is over, withered then fell you should be.

"He wants to see you."

Eyes had not meet the wife, "Later."

Michelle ceased the move of his fingers, _no, Dear, would you be a father with love by your side and proudfulness on your shoulders—all for your own Prince?_

 _Ugh_ , Arthur had refused a lot of proposal propunded by summer which needed a longer period of its living, burnt down agreement summer should accept; but the n and o could not be that easy to be said.

Autumn comes in process, shall it? Leaving for awhile would not turn the catasthropic disaster of inequality on.

Convincing by Michelle, be wanted or no, was his weakness then he straightened his feet supporting the body of King of Diamond people praised.

Jack was in his room, Arthur—with hand intertwining the Queen's like the chain which refused to free the prisoner it thought as its lover—and Michelle smiled.

"Show your improvement, Darling."

Jett could do magic with his brushes. Autumn fell fast, the glitters were obedient enough to continue Arthur's works. The season came well, the King was smiling, to the wind he told that he wanted his wife to listen to this,

_You, yes, you—thank you for giving me the best successor._

* * *

 .

.

* * *

 

_ black joker _

But had human ever thought that there was always dark side of fate, a part where it was—intendedly—left without any satisfying answer? For had it revealed itself, the world would not be the world had been, was, and would be.

And thus Alfred, the King of Black of Mysteriousness, wanted no stop in playing the Flute of Unanswered Fate regularly,  even though sometimes kisses and soft whispers Natalya gave him as the Queen of his life were disturbing enough at the wrong time. Or the calling of Eduard the Jack when he managed inventing new things.

But no, no, he would flute. Always, always, thrice a day, telling human not to quest always, as world always had two sides. There was a place where any question should not be exist, human, and my flute would blow the news to you. Delivering the mystery—which would remained still on some aspects of your life.

* * *

.

_ white joker _

Thus the sketches told you; purity did not cease to exist, even millions of devil walked around the town and followed you runaway. Sketches of Matthew's creation would turn into a puff of smoke, transparency was what it hold after—then it would travel all around the world, yeah, yeah, it would shower you, would clear the heart of yours from the spell of the Troops of Hell's Hex.

Yekaterina asked him to dance, for he always pushed himself too far of bathing the world with white unseen cloud, _wait, Kat, wait_ , but when Kat brought Feliks the Jack and played something on gramophone, a _yes_ finally she found.

Of course, doubt not, purity was not on extinction already even though Matthew took some break, for he rested for a while only to love, love, love Yekaterina and his world. And love was the answer to purity.

Very sole answer.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [just run away, little one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538089) by [crystallizedcherry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallizedcherry/pseuds/crystallizedcherry)




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